Reading the Will
by FirstYear
Summary: Minerva finds Snape's last requests.Then, from a previously unknown source other bequests are distributed which tell of the man's nature and oft mis-spent life. Snape/Minerva/Neville/Andromeda/Harry and Draco all appear.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

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**Reading the Will**

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The war had been over a little more than a year before Minerva could muster enough resolve to open up the dungeon quarters and prepare them for a new Professor of Potions that would be starting the next term. She took the wards down and opened the rough wooden doors, making a mental note to have Filch check and silence the hinges.

She pushed the door open slowly, feeling the stale air wash around her as it met with the cleaner, cooler air of the hallway and, closing her eyes, she could smell the potions in the air that reminded her so much of him. Shaking her head, she brought up her wand and uttered, "_Lumos_," then watched as the candles and fireplace roared into life.

She had worked with the man for seventeen years and was surprised at how little she knew about him. When she had been informed of his death she had no one to inform, no one to owl, no one to meet at the train station to offer support and understanding. She did not know if he had beliefs that she needed to honour at his burial, did not know what his family customs were or if living as a Muggle for the first part of his life had left any residual religious beliefs.

Now she stood and looked at the disarray of the room, and saw the books dumped from the bookcase to the floor, furniture tipped over, the bedding ripped off his bed and still lying in a heap. She sighed, remembering the day after Albus had died, how the Ministry had descended on these quarters looking for evidence and anything that would give them an insight into his mind, hoping to find where he had run, where he hid, and with whom. It had looked like this then.

They had found nothing that time, just as they had found nothing now. They discovered no letters or journals concerning his personal life. The only correspondence evident was that from the Hogsmeade apothecary and Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley. The Ministry had rifled through the pages of each book. They searched for sheets of parchment he might have hidden between the sheets of student essays and exams, and even ripped open the cushions on his chair and sofa.

She had restored the quarters as much as she could for his return that first time, putting everything back the best she could. She hoped to hide from him the fact that his personal life, or lack thereof, was dragged out and spoken of among strangers. The fact of no evidence being found of friends or lovers had fuelled the tongues and let the rumours fly. It was unbelievable to the rumour-mongers that someone could live in complete solitude.

This time Minerva did not have the heart to repair the broken dishes that lay on the floor, not wanting to see such clear-cut evidence of the last time Severus had sat in these rooms. He had come back to the school after his trial to act as Headmaster for a while, only to be pulled and pushed by not only the Dark Lord but also the Order and the student needs that were at odds and trapped him in the middle. He had once again taken his solitude in his chambers and shut himself away.

She started with the books, which she set right on the shelves with a flick of her wand, then turned and spelled the papers strewn on the floor sorted and stacked. She looked around and, like those before her, wished to find something personal. If she could find just one thing to ease her conscience, to assure her that the last seventeen years he spent had not been in the darkness of the dungeons, alone and unloved, she would feel better of this.

She flicked her wand at the bed, turned the mattress over, flipping it from end to end, and called the elves to fetch fresh linens and pillows. She had the elves remove his clothes and robes, capes and boots. She removed his soaps and shaving cups and ridded the chambers of half-empty whiskey bottles and old copies of the _Prophet_.

Ordering the floors to be scrubbed and the walls and ceiling cleaned, she walked slowly back to her office to sit and sip her tea and look out the window. She could still see him as a thin First Year as he sat under the Sorting Hat, fearfully twisting his head to look up at the rim, chewing his lip with worry. She smiled, remembering how proudly he would carry his essays back to his room after they were graded, not wanting anyone to touch them for fear of creasing them.

She turned to the sound of an elf popping into her office, bringing her back from her memories, and stood to walk to her desk.

"Master, Professor Headmaster," the elf said, not knowing how to address her yet. "I find this."

He reached up, slid a cigar box on her desk, and stood back with his ears flat down his back. "Under the mantel it was. In the old mantel, under the new."

"Mantel?" She raised an eyebrow and looked at the elf. "What new mantel?"

"Before Professor Snape comes here, the old mantel cracked. We put a new one over the old. I cleaning the mantel and it was there."

"Thank you," she said, sitting down and pulling the box over to her and dismissing the elf.

Opening the box, she saw a letter on top, written in his hand, neat and clearly defined. Picking it up and slowly unfolding it, she saw it was addressed to her by first name only.

_Minerva._

_I trust that if you are reading this I have not survived the final battle. My affairs are in order. I ask you to execute my last wishes._

_1. Envelope included to Harry Potter._

_2. Funds in Gringotts account to settle outstanding balance at Flourish and Blotts._

_3. Transfer the balance of the account to vault number 1754._

_4. The rest of the contents of this box I leave to you._

_Thank you for your attention to this matter._

_Severus Tobias Snape_

She laid down the letter, so like its author, and put the Gringotts key in her pocket. She picked up the envelope and ran her fingers over it, pressing gently, feeling papers the size and hardness of old pictures. Laying that aside as well, she looked back to the sparse contents of the cigar box.

She put her hand in and pulled out a round medal of accomplishment she remembered tying around his mother's neck in her 6th year. There was the pin she had attached to his robes for being first on a Transfiguration exam, and a small whistle Albus had given him as a first year after he had become lost in the hallways for the third time. The last thing in the box was an old card from the "Places of Wizarding" collection, popular when he was a child, showing Hogwarts against a black sky.

She looked at the items in a box of childhood, hidden in the room of a man, and thought it was not much to show for a life. Then, she leaned back in her chair and ran her finger over the letter, pondering the meaning of vault 1754, and finally smiled, knowing he had not been alone. Putting all but the envelope back in the box, and placing the box in her drawer, she rose to send an owl to Harry in accordance with Professor Snape's last will and silent testament.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

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**Reading the Will**

**Chapter 2**

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Harry opened the window and allowed the owl in to wait until he checked the missive to see if a reply was expected. It was bitterly cold out. The owl pecked at his hand gently, as if thanking him for the moment of respite, and then perched on the long kitchen table to wait, cocking his head inquisitively to watch as the parchment opened.

Harry picked up the beaker from the counter, holding it in one hand, the letter in the other, frowning when he saw the return address. He crossed over to the table, looking at the handwriting that had penned his name, recognising it from his years at Hogwarts. He would have been less surprised if it appeared with red ink with garish slashes and harsh words followed by a begrudging grade. This neat script spoke of the compulsive tidiness and precision that he still thought of as part of the man he had only begun to know after his death.

He sipped his tea, and then opened the envelope, letting the contents spill to the table. Harry was reconciled to the fact that Severus was buried, unsung, and still hated, regardless of the truth he had fought so hard to proclaim to anyone that would listen. The _Prophet _still ran scandalous stories, and the mention of his name still brought sneers. Now, looking at the small mementoes on the table, he wondered what Snape was doing to have not sent this to him before his death.

He picked up an old photo like the one his aunt used to keep in the bottom drawer of the china cabinet. It was a small photo, slick and shiny with scalloped edges. He flipped it over and saw a picture of two people, elderly and stern, looking back at him.

He held it up in front of him, still frowning, and put it down before looking to pick up the next. He puzzled as his hand reached for a picture cut from a magazine showing a perfectly-made sitting room, with handwritten notations of measurements and how many Galleons they cost written in the margins.

The third piece to have fallen out of the envelope was a picture postcard. The picture showed waves crashing on a sandy stretch of beach with no one in evidence. A palm branch hung over the upper left corner and in the distance, a small island peeked over the horizon. He flipped this over as well, seeing nothing written, no address, and no "wish you were here". He wondered why Snape had never written or sent it and found it strange that now, so long since the final battle, he should be holding it in his hand.

He picked up the folded letter, opened it, and smoothed it flat on the table. Then looking up and grinning at the owl, he gave it a treat and opened the window, releasing it into the night. He refilled his cup, and then sat back at the table, picking up the letter, and began to read.

_Mr. Potter _

_You once asked me what your mother was like. I found that impossible to answer at the time, and even now, I hesitate to attempt an explanation of her based on my limited information. I doubt you will understand fully what I intend to impart to you. However, since I will not have the opportunity in the future, as evidenced by the nature of this letter, I will offer what I can now, in hopes that my words will not once again go unheard. _

Harry grinned and sipped his tea, hearing Snape's voice as it would have intoned the words.

_Enclosed you will find three items I found at your mother__'__s home the night you were taken. I feel that they are the best representation of her you could have. I have saved them for reasons I will not go into. However, I hope you are now old enough to have them in your possession. _

Harry leaned over the table, placing his arms on the wooden surface, and gripped the letter tightly. He had not expected to be so suddenly wrenched into his past. This letter had been written before the final battle. Snape could not have known he would give Harry his memories, or that since that time Harry had found out as much as he could about the dour Potions master.

_The couple in the black and white photo are pictures of her grandparents. She had no recollection of them. However, she placed great importance in knowing her past and her heritage. This was, to her, not a search of her magical past, or the bloodline so important in this world, but rather the search of family and a continuity which so often goes unsought in the young. Much like you, she craved to know her family, seeing no difference between the parents she knew and the grandparents she did not. _

Harry picked up the picture again, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and brought his hand closer to see the old faces better. He did not know their names, or where they had lived; he knew only this picture of them. He did not know if they were his grandfather's parents or his grandmother's. He thought of Dudley, and for a brief moment wondered if he knew who they were.

He laid the picture down and turned back to the letter.

_The second photo, by her admission, is of her favourite place. It is an old picture. I remember she carried it long before we became students at Hogwarts. She would often use it as a bookmark. This was where she claimed to go to be alone and to find solitude. She mentioned once that although she had never been there, she visited often. As I am not one for flights of fancy, you will perhaps understand this better than I. _

He smiled and picked up the postcard, but saw instead how he would sit alone in his room, with only Hedwig to keep him company, and study the small picture of Hogwarts he still had in a small box. He wondered if his mother would sometimes look at this beach as her magical place when she felt the world had become too much, as he had looked at his picture to escape the confines of his room at Privet Drive. He saw her suddenly as younger than he had seen her in pictures. He saw her as a first year just starting out with a war before her that she did not know of. He smiled and touched his finger to the small island on the horizon and was suddenly glad to have the knowledge that her life had not been all wars, and hiding, and death.

Turning back to the letter, he continued to read.

_The third item I found between the pages of a notebook, the rest being unreadable. I find this the most telling, as should you. _

_Your mother was, in short, a dreamer. That is not in itself a bad thing. She dreamed of family, a place of safety and peace, and a future in the perfect home she would create. In that, you are much like her. _

_You cannot hope to know someone without knowing their aspirations, for that is the truth of the person. Any other information you gather is only a source used when writing an essay of accomplishments, failures, or lofty goals suitable for the _Daily Prophet _or pieces of fiction._

_We lived in perilous times, Mr. Potter. We did not have the luxury, as did the students of your time, to look back and know what to expect. If we had, I would not be here to write this letter and your mother would be in the home she had hoped to create. At the time I knew your mother, I put no merit in her dreams and aspirations, only seeking my own path to power. In this, I was wrong. _

_In parting, I will say only this: Your mother would want you to keep your family close. She would ask you to reconcile with her sister, with whom she was extraordinarily close. She would think it good form to forgive Petunia any past indiscretions you believe you have suffered, and to make amends with all you can. She, as did Albus, believed it was only through family, and those close to us, that we are truly remembered. Lily__'__s accomplishments may help you to define her, but it was her family that sustained her._

_Regards _

_Professor Severus Snape_.

Harry re-read the letter and looked again at the photos. Shrugging his shoulders, he leaned back in the chair and frowned. He tried to think of anyone that would remember Snape for more than the list of things he had done. Was there anyone who would truly miss him?

"Damn." He rose to close the window only to turn back and look at the papers scattered across the table. With every one gone, who would still remember her? Who would know her for more than what had happened during the war?

_Git, _he thought, looking up at the clock and figured if he was going, that he best do it now. He still had a couple of hours before Vernon came home from work. He grabbed the small, shiny picture with the scalloped edges and headed for the door.

Top of Form

Bottom of Form


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

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**Reading the Will**

**Chapter 3**

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Angelica Wilkes rose slowly from the cold ground. She glanced back over her shoulder, then turned toward Hogsmeade, where she would Floo back home from the Three Broomsticks. Since she came before the sun had found its way to the valley floor, she would once again be unseen as she left his grave. She knew he would prefer it this way, to continue in secrecy, unseen and hidden.

For the last twenty years, Angelica had hidden. Bella had seen to that without even knowing what she had done. It mattered not that no mark graced Angelica's arm, or that Severus had hidden her years ago. The Ministry assumed she was as guilty of the same unspeakable acts as her husband was, as Bella had been with hers. As if marriage were a contamination. Angelica Wilkes, the widow of a Death Eater finally taken down, they deemed guilty by association.

As time went on, not only the Ministry looked for her, but also the dark side sought her out as a blood traitor. Again, Severus spirited her away, and bore the cost of her keep. He walked between the two sides, always a step ahead of the hunt, pulling her along from place to place, refusing to give her up. Then refusing to give them up.

At first, he had protected her as the wife of a friend; later, he protected a friend's widow. Only after he allowed her to share his life so closely had she seen him for what he was. Only after she had accepted him in her bed from loneliness had she found she was lonelier still when he was here, dreading the time he would leave.

Now she hid from three worlds. Two were worlds of war and retribution, belonging to the Ministry of Light and the Death Eaters still fighting for the dark. The third world, that of a Secret Keeper's secret life that he would still want hidden.

So, Angelica hid today from habit, and from her knowledge that he would want their lives kept secret, out of the Daily Prophet's columns. Away from that Potter boy that seemed intent of digging into his past. She was careful never to use her magic near the grave, or to lay flowers over his name in fear that her magic would be traced or the scent of the flowers linger on her clothing.

Severus never mentioned her name to others or brought her gifts when he would come to her late at night. It was enough for them just to have the time together, as just the time at his grave was enough for her now.

She reached the Three Broomsticks and found Rosmerta waiting with a hot cup of tea, the sign still turned to _closed_ on the front door.

"Ah Ro, 'tis uncalled for," she said in her lilting voice.

"It's getting colder at night. I always find just before the light the worse for it." Rosmerta pushed the cup across the table and nodded to the empty chair. "I got fresh bread in the oven and managed to find some late season berries. I didn't go getting up just to let you use the Floo. You eat, girl, you look peaky. "

"Tea smells good," Angelica said with a smile.

"It's the last of the tin. Only one other would ever order it. Too bitter for most, what they call an acquired taste." Rosmerta picked up her mug with both hands and sipped the hot brew, peering over the rim. "So, think I should put in more? You ask for it every time you come."

Angelica leaned back in her chair, pulling her cloak tight. She looked back at Rosmerta, unsure of how to answer.

"You are the only other that knew I carried it." Rosmerta leaned over the table, setting down her cup. "Now, say what you will, but after thirty years sitting in this chair I see a lot, and what I see now is a witch not keeping her secret very well."

Angelica blanched and stood quickly, turning to the fireplace when Rosmerta hurried to her and grabbed her elbow. "No call to be running off, just us two in here. You are welcomed, as was he."

"I have to leave." Angelica yanked her arm away. "I am sorry to bother you at this time of morn."

Running to the fireplace, she threw down the powder and as the green flames carried her up, she turned to look at Rosmerta, wondering how she could have been so foolish as to slip up like this. She stepped out into her cottage shaking, knowing she had been careless, and thought for a moment that Severus would be angry before she remembered why he would not.

She still expected to see him come walking up the path, or to see him out on the cliffs, his black robes and hair caught up and flying around him in the salty wind. On quiet nights, she could close her eyes and hear his voice call to her in the breeze and feel his breath on her shoulders as the warm summer currents floated in the window.

She had tried to remember the times his tongue had cut with some caustic remark, or how he had scowled if she was walking in the meadow when he came, not waiting for him in the doorway or asleep in his chair. She tried to remember his anger and rage when she had first told him she would leave, and take care of herself, that she would no longer hide.

Then she would remember how his eyes had not matched the anger, how his breath had hitched as he demanded she stay inside for her safety, and how gentle his arms had felt as he pulled her to him instinctively in his sleep.

She fell onto the bed, fully clothed, and wrapped the blanket around her, hugging his pillow to her face, breathing in his fading scent, wondering how much longer it would stay. She fell asleep to the sound of his snores in her dreams and the memory of his embrace.

She woke as the sun was setting. This had been the time she would most look forward to. The times he did not have patrol, or during the years of Voldemort's reign, when he would not be called away. She would curl up in his chair and read a book he had brought from the Hogwarts' library and hope that he would come. More times than not she would sleep alone in the chair waiting for him, then wake to face the new day alone.

He was not here, and he was here still. His robes still hung by the door. His books rested on the shelves, and scattered around the small cottage, a lifetime of remembrances still sat where she could see. She had tried four times to clear the place of him, to pack his clothing and empty his lab. Each time she had spent the entire day picking up each item and remembering when they purchased it, or how it fit in his hand. Unable to be rid of anything, she had stopped each of those four times, knowing he would scowl at her and call her foolish, insist she finish the job, then gently chide her and tell her to stop if she did not wish to finish.

He had told her he would not survive the war, that he would fall in the final battle. Unsure of Voldemort's outcome, he was sure of his own. Both sides would throw curses at him. Both sides would look at him as a traitor. He would rush headlong into the foray knowing it would be his last decision, intent only on making sure Lily's son completed his duty. Intent on insuring that both children born in the seventh month would survive. It was a decision that came easily to him, without a thought, as if no decision had been made.

Today she would finish what she had started so many times. Today she would finally manage to put him behind her and walk away. She walked through the cottage, opening every drawer to dump the contents on the floor. She pulled everything out of the closets and let the clothes lay where they fell.

His books, she pushed off shelves and the pensieves she had forced him to keep, smashed and his memories released. She no longer needed to prove his innocence. She no longer needed assurance that he had been hers. She closed her eyes and tipped up her chin, wondering what it felt like to pray, and then with a sigh she continued to search for the journals she knew he kept secret even from her.

Finding a stack of deep red notebooks on the topmost shelf of the closet, she flipped open the first and smiled as she read the inscription on the inside cover. She looked at the remaining journals and knew what he planned for her to do.

"Git," she said aloud. "Still pulling the strings."

She looked around the room, seeing nothing that she needed to remember him with, and, pointing her wand at the mess of the floor, set his clothes ablaze. She waited, watching as the fire consumed his life. She watched as it licked the walls and sent out hungry tongues of flame until the ceiling exploded with building heat and roared into life, forcing her to step backwards out of the door.

Hugging the journals to her breast, she walked away from their home, knowing there was nothing to keep her here, and knowing that he would insist she leave, to keep moving, to be safe. She heard the roar of raging wind as the flames engulfed the structure, and smelled the last of him in the acrid black smoke that billowed up to the sky.

Without looking back, she walked down the sloping hill to the dirt path that led to the road. She would walk to the village and have tea. She would order two cups of his favourite bitter blend, and pretend, just this one last time, that he would met her there and walk her home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

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**Reading the Will**

**Chapter 4**

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Neville walked across the grounds of Hogwarts toward the main door. He wondered why Professor McGonagall would want to see him now.

He and Professor Sprout were attempting to save the last of the plants exposed to the elements. Broken glass and shards of metal still littered the ground of the last greenhouse they needed to mend. Unable to use magic near the delicate new shoots of growth, they had to crawl on hands and knees to pick the small slivers of broken rubble from the ground. His hands were filthy and his robes torn, yet he fought the urge to pull his wand to repair them, knowing that the residual magic could not be taken back into the greenhouse.

He headed up the spiralling staircase, somewhat surprised that the gargoyles did not even question who he was or ask for a password. Perhaps the damage had reached even the basic spells that controlled the castle, he thought. He made a mental note to check the greenhouses for loss of the basic spells that held the base of the glass walls to the side of the mountain, as it had from the beginning.

"Ah, Mr Longbottom," Minerva started, "you have a guest that wishes to speak to you. It is a private matter."

He stopped just inside the office doors and saw a tall, slender witch rise and turn to look at him.

"Madam." He nodded politely, suspicious that she was yet another reporter.

"Mr Longbottom? Mr Neville Longbottom?"

"Yes." He looked at Minerva nervously.

"Mr Longbottom, Professor McGonagall has been as kind as to allow me a moment of your time. Please." She indicated two chairs sitting opposite the desk. "I know you are busy, this will not take long."

Neville swallowed hard and cautiously started toward the chairs, looking in question again at Minerva.

"It is fine, Mr Longbottom, she is here on her own," she said stiffly, looking down her nose at Angelica. "I shall be in the kitchens if you have need of me. It seems there was damage to the chimney that extends to the lowest levels that needs checking into."

The tall, slender witch watched as Minerva left before she sighed in relief and shrugged off her cloak, tossing it across the back of the chair.

"I make her nervous." She grimaced and turned to the window. "I don't really blame her. It must be hard for her not to see me as I was when I left here and forget what she has heard of me since."

"Madam? Is there something you wanted?"

She turned back and looked at him, seeing the rumpled hair and dirty robes. "I have taken you away from your work. I will try to make this brief."

"We are rebuilding the greenhouses. Most of them were destroyed, you know, and what was left is in sore need of repair before the weather changes."

She sat on the edge of the desk facing him, leaned forward, and pressed the journal in his hands, not letting go when his own hands grasped the book to take it from her. Four hands held the book as she looked into his face, waiting until his eyes met hers before she could let her fingers open and release Severus' book to the lad.

"I am sorry, this is hard for me, I hope you will understand." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and turned away from him again to walk to the window.

"You have to understand that the times were different then. Friendships meant more than they do now. Friendships were not only between people, but also between families and expected. Your friends defined you and you, them. Perhaps friendship is the wrong word."

She turned back from the window and looked at him hard. "Do you understand?"

"I… I think so… no, I am sorry, Miss?"

"It doesn't matter who I am right now. What you need to keep in mind is that things were different."

"Sure." He chewed the inside of his cheek and pondered what she had said. "I guess like when we were kids and picked friends by what house we were in, only now it doesn't matter so much."

"Something like that." She crossed the room and moved her chair to face him before sitting down.

"When I went to school here the houses were even more divided than you would have found them. Gryffindor only befriended Gryffindor and Slytherin only befriended Slytherin, and one only spoke with a Ravenclaw for help on an essay. Lifetime allegiances began here, in most cases long before the students knew the others' true merit. This was even truer in the old pure blood families."

"What do you want with me?" Neville was fast becoming uncomfortable with this conversation, wanting to forget about the alliances that had brought the war.

"I want you to understand why I am here, not to forgive, or to in any way change your feelings, only to understand."

Neville came to his feet, knowing then that she had taken the side of Voldemort. He ran his hand through his hair and scowled at her, feeling anger that she should be here. He threw the journal on the desk and stomped to the office door.

"NO! Neville, please," she ran after him, blocking his path to the door. "I have brought you the journal from Professor Snape. He wanted you to have it. Please, perhaps I am saying this poorly."

"Snape?"

"Yes, give me a minute more. Please Neville, if you don't want it I will take it and leave."

"Why would I…" he looked back at the desk and swallowed. "He wasn't what we thought, you know. Not nearly."

"Then give him this chance to make amends."

"Snape? Making amends?" Neville couldn't help but snigger as he looked evenly at the witch.

"Well, that's what we would call it but we both know he would deny it." She chuckled at him and again indicated the chairs.

"I wanted to tell you that Professor Snape worked hard on this journal. He did it for reasons that should be clear to you. You saw what became of him here at Hogwarts. What I don't think you saw was the guilt he carried."

"I know about Harry's mum. Is that what you mean? That he felt guilty over what happened to her?"

"Lily? Yes, I didn't know you knew…"

"It was in the shack, you know. Harry and Hermione were there when he died; he managed to give them some memories."

Angelica rose and turned away from him, closing her eyes and counting slowly. Potter had been with him at the end. Potter would have offered no kindness, no gentleness, and no final words. She wanted to ask how and why. She had imagined him dying in the infirmary with Minerva or Poppy at his bedside. She wanted to know if anyone had bathed his body and rubbed oil into his skin or said the prayers. She wanted to know if he lay facing the east or the west and if there had been pain. She wanted just one person to know of her.

"He regretted the part he played before the first war, and the things he could not undo," she said softly to control her voice, swallowing her tears and calming her breathing. "He severely regretted what happened to Harry's parents and to yours, Neville."

"My parents? He knew… was he there?"

"No, Neville." She turned quickly back to him and shook her head empathically. "He only found out when it was over, when it was too late, when Bella was bragging. It was that and Lily's death that really drove home what Tom was like. But it was too late, too late for him, and too late for me."

"You? You were a Death Eater too?"

"No," she sighed heavily. "My husband joined the movement before the term Death Eater was even thought of. As his wife, I had no say in the matter." She shrugged her shoulders as if to throw off a cold breeze. "This is not what I came for. I came to give you the journal and to ask you not to judge Professor Snape harshly. That is all."

"How did you get this?" He picked up the journal, turning it over in his hand before laying it down more gently this time.

"It was going to be destroyed when I saw the inscription inside and thought I would bring it. It seems like something he wanted done." She picked up her cloak and walked to the door, signalling an end to their conversation.

Turning back as she slipped the wrap over her shoulders, she looked at him for the last time. "We both know that he never gave a damn about what most people thought, least of all someone your age. To him you were, and always would be, just Alice's irritating son. What he did care about was trying to undo the damage already done, and insure that it stopped there. I would be remiss if I lead you to believe that this is somehow for you. It is something I want you to do for him."

Neville looked back to where he had put the journal and walked back to the desk, hearing her footfalls on the stairs. He picked up the book, flipped open the cover and read the neat tight scrawl.

_Mr Longbottom;_

_The name of the person I have entrusted this to in no way concerns you. Suffice it to say I trust she will deliver this in good time. I apologize for any untoward delay._

_I was not present when the questioning took place, nor when they succumbed to their unfortunate state. Due to this lack of this firsthand knowledge, I have been unable to complete my work and determine the correct dose and duration of the potions explained on the following pages. Therefore, the process must fall to the hands of a competent Healer for experimentation of dosage. See Appendix for full notes._

_The work contained in this journal has taken several years to complete. I sincerely hope that you are not foolish enough to discount its content due to some misplaced loyalty or faulty knowledge. I assure you from tests carried out on my own person that it is most effective._

_Frank Longbottom was a serious student, not given to mental wanderings. Your mother, however, was unable to complete a coherent thought. I will therefore suggest that you give the potion first to your father, as he will be better able to find a means of communication in the early stages of recovery. Speech will be one of the last functions restored._

_I further suggest that you retain a solicitor prior to approaching St. Mungo's. This potion is unregistered and unpatented. You will need help to accomplish these things quickly as the Ministry's endless process is very cumbersome. In this way, you will insure enough funds upon its sale to move your parents to a private facility for their rehabilitation._

_Professor S. Snape_

Neville sat down heavily. Staring at the inscription, he began to thumb through the pages, unable to decipher more than the list of ingredients that spanned two pages. Minerva found him still sitting in the chair, his elbows on his knees, his head lowered to his hands, sobbing for a loss he did not know how to feel and a happiness he had not thought possible.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

**Reading the Will**

**Chapter 5**

* * *

Draco stepped into the Hog's Head, stopping just inside the door until his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the main room. He was here to meet someone, but was unsure as to whom. The only message he had received was a missive strapped to the leg of a small tawny owl as to the time and place, and now that he was here he regretted that he had succumbed to his curiosity.

He looked around, seeing mostly empty tables, and then caught the eye of Aberforth, who indicated with a nod of his head that Draco was to go into the small room in the back. He nodded back and raised his eyebrow in question only to see the old man lower his head and continue to wipe at the dirty glasses lined up in front of him. Draco curled his lip in distaste, sneering at the ill-kempt man, and strode to the back.

He saw only one figure in the small room. One small figure covered with a hood pulled down over her face and wrapped in a dark cloak. He knew this was a witch by the long, slender fingers that reached out of the sleeve and held the hood in place. He crossed over to her and pulled out the chair opposite her noisily, lifting it and slamming the legs down on the floor.

"I have already placed a silencing spell on the room. So if your intent is to call attention to this conversation or to me, I would suggest you save your energy."

"Who are you?" He flopped in the chair and leaned back, folding his arms across his chest and looking down at her arrogantly.

"That doesn't matter. Your godfather sent me."

Draco sucked in his breath and stood up so quickly the chair fell back, clattering to the floor, adding a sound to the room that had otherwise grown silent.

"Sit down, fool boy, he's dead. This isn't a Dickens Carol," she chuckled, seeing his reaction. "He kept a journal that has your name on it. I think he meant for you to have it."

She pushed a deep red journal across the table toward him, her hand staying on top of the cover until he righted the chair and sat back down quietly. She kept her hand steady until he reached for it greedily, then pulled it back out of his reach just to anger him.

"You said it was mine, so give it to me," he sneered, reaching over quickly and snatching it out from under her palm. "What are you doing with it?"

She shook her head sadly, wanting this over, wanting to leave this boy who had played so much a part of their last time together. She heard the practiced boredom in his voice and knew that no matter what had happened at the final battle he had not changed. She wanted to slap his face and scream that it was his fault, that Dumbledore alone was not the guilty party, that if he had not followed his father like a blind pig perhaps he would still be here.

"What is this?" He sat flipping through the blank pages, looking at her with suspicion. "You called me all this way just to give me a cheap notebook? What kind of joke is this?"

"Call it what you will, but take it. He gave a lot for you, more than you know, but had no regrets over what he did. You understand that, right? You understand that he would have done anything to save your worthless hide?"

"Snape never did anything that didn't serve his needs first, don't try to make…"

"Stop, Draco, it's over. He's gone and no one cares what you do anymore. Not that thing you call a father or the mother that let him do as he pleased with you, and certainly not those you used to call friends. Don't you understand that even now?"

"I don't have to sit here and listen to you, old woman," he hissed.

"No, but you will. You will because you are too eager to hear ill of him. You have always delighted in hearing the worst of people and I expect nothing different now."

"Who the fuck are you to sit there and…"

"I am the person he entrusted this to, now shut your mouth and for once in your life pretend to be interested in someone other than yourself."

"He was a traitor, you know. I understand that he needed to change sides at the end, we all did," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "But at the beginning, he was with the Dark Lord, don't tell me he wasn't. He and my father fought together. He told me things about Snape that no one else knows."

"I don't care what your opinion of him is, or what your father told you. I don't care if you drop dead thirty seconds after you walk out of here. Snape, however, did care. Don't ask me why, you are a vile creature that reminds me of your father too much for comfort."

"You could have sent this by owl." Draco tossed the journal on the table with a look of contempt. "Bloody hell, you could have saved us both time and tossed it in the bin."

Angelica stood up, drawing the hood lower and her cloak tighter.

"I don't know what he saw in you, boy. I think it was a type of hope that only he understood, I never did. There's no other way of saying it. He hoped you would do better. He would be sorely disappointed to hear you today. But then again, you don't really care about that, do you? You don't care that his last months on this earth were spent in a hell only he could see, that you and people like you put him in."

She stood up and turned her back on him and walked out of the room quickly, her cloak fanning out behind her and her heels clicking against the floor as sound again came to the back room from the pub in front. Draco heard the silencing spell fall and turned back to look at the journal that lay on the table in front of him.

He pulled his wand from his pocket and raised it over the book, thinking of reducing it to ash. Instead, he paused and studied the cover. She had said it had his name on it, yet all he saw was a tiny S.S. engraved in the lower left hand corner. Using his wand to flip it open, he found the inscription on the inside.

.

.

.

_Mr Draco Malfoy _

_I have spent the past few years of my life in the pursuit of correcting mistakes I have made, or could have prevented. Each of these acts of penance is contained in a journal such as this. _

_Not all journals are deliverable. Some do not concern transgressions against individuals; rather, spells or potions which I developed over the years and the antidotes and repealing spells useful in combating them. These journals will be sent to the places best able to disseminate the information once it is safe for my messenger to do so. _

_I have no illusions of surviving the war, nor do I regret the path I have now taken. I assure you, the path I now follow is the correct one, and the one I hope you will consider taking yourself. _

_As your godfather, I would be remiss in not sending this journal to you, in hopes that you will have no need of it. I do not wish for you to spend the last years of your life filling empty pages with regrets instead of living the life so many have died to enable you to live. _

_The choice is yours, and time is your only constraint. Consider this journal the first of many you will fill if you continue to follow your father's way, but only a reminder of what was not, if you choose differently. _

_Your Godfather _

_Severus Tobias Snape_ .

.

.

.

Draco reached the end of the page only to let his eyes again drift to the top to read it again. He placed his finger on the second of the two words over the sender's name, and, moving his thumb to cover the first three letters, felt the sting of tears prickle his eyes.

He stood, looking around to make sure he had not been observed, then shoved the journal in the inside pocket of his robes and took a deep breath as he raised his head. He did not like the sudden feeling of loss and hopelessness that filled him. He did not want to think of his mother, who had only turned sides at the end to save him, but now returned to her husband's side. And he certainly did not want to think of his father, who still spoke highly of the Dark Lord. He could only think of the one person who had ever fought for him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Not Mine.**

* * *

**Reading the Will**

**Chapter 6**

* * *

Angelica stood in the shadows of the neighbouring doorway, watching as Draco disappeared from sight, wondering why Severus had cared so much for the boy. She had asked him once and received only his silence in reply, a silence that she had come to know as him.

He would not speak to her about that night with Albus, and all that had happened. She knew a piece of him had died with the old man, and try as she might she could not find that piece to force it back into him, to give him life again.

That was when she knew he had prepared for what was to come. She had watched him accept the fact that he would not survive, but had not wanted to believe it herself. Then she watched as he burnt one red journal and inscribed a new one for his godson. She knew then that she would live to see him buried.

She swept back into the Hog's Head, pulling her hood down low as she walked to the bar and tossed down her gold.

"I need a room."

"And who would you be?" Aberforth peered at her. "I know who stays here or they find someplace else to take their troubles."

"Ah, now Abe, you know me," she sighed as she lifted her chin and pulled the hem of the hood back enough for him to see her face. "Won't be kicking me out now, will ya? Not on a cold night like this."

"Haven't seen you around these parts." He quickly glanced around at the few customers to make sure no one else had seen her. "Thought the talk was wrong. Said you were dead, they did."

"Highly exaggerated, that. Although I once read in the _Prophet_ that I had lost my soul." She smirked. "Must have been the Blacks that started the rumour. One mad, one gone to her husband's Dark Lord and one Muggle lover was enough for them. They don't need another crazy bitch in the family."

"What brings you back?" He reached for a bottle of scotch and set it down in front of her with a clean glass that he brought up from under the bar.

"Missed my favourite barkeep, Abe. You know I was always in love with you." She smirked as she pulled her hood forward to hide her face again.

"For him?" Aberforth frowned at the door. "That Malfoy kid?"

"Nah. To him, maybe, but not for him. Just delivering something." She picked up the shot glass and knocked it back, trying not to choke as the liquid hit the back of her throat.

"Out of practice?"

"Aye, the cheap stuff does that." She pushed the glass at him and tossed another Galleon on the bar.

Aberforth put the bottle back and pulled out a bottle of Ogden's, poured her a half glass and pushed it back to her along with her money.

"Money's no good here, girl. Let an old man buy a beauty a drink, makes me feel young," he chuckled.

"Read you had closed down. The _Prophet_ said that between the damage and what happened up at the school you'd had enough."

"Thought of it." He poured himself two swallows in a glass. "Won't do no good, though. What's done is done."

"I wanted to apologize for that night we…"

"Yep, done is done. Don't want to hear 'bout a damned war almost twenty years over when this one is still too close. Lost too much this time 'round. How 'bout we talk about it in twenty years more?"

"Deal," she laughed, feeling relief wash over her. "So, do I get that room, old man, or do I see if the Black House is still standing?"

"Ya know that Potter kid owns the house now, Sirius left it to him. Weren't no-one else," he shrugged his shoulders. "Would have thought you were dead he woulda, but not sure he even knew of you."

"Thank Merlin. I remember being scared of that place when I was a kid and we visited my crazy aunt, the heads and all. Those people were crazy," she sighed. "Haven't been there since I was a kid. Even then, it was falling down. I imagine my name was blown off the wall long ago."

"Andromeda would take exception to that, the being crazy part."

"Gypsies must have left her on the Black door step. She was never like the others, never wanted more than she got." Angelica looked up at him, pulling back the hem again. "She still around here? Read about her daughter. Dora was it, died on the last day?"

"Nymphadora, she and her … well … her and Remus Lupin, they passed together in the last fight up at Hogwarts." He shook his head and reached for his rag to wipe at the glasses again. "Shame 'bout that, place has enough orphans. One more kid to grow up wondering what his parents were like, and getting in trouble with the looking. That one is going to have problems, already there is talk about him and what he will grow into."

"He? Nymphadora and Remus? Remus Lupin?" she frowned at him. "They only mentioned her as Ted's daughter in the _Prophet_, Ted Tonks. He died a little while back if I remember right."

"Did you know Lupin?" He looked at her strangely. "Would have been about your age."

"No, I know of him, but… listen," she whispered and leaned over the counter to speak quietly. "Keep a room open for me, but I have something to do first. Where do I find her? Andromeda."

He turned around and grabbed a key from its peg on the wall, rolled it around in the palm of his hand, then shrugged and put it in her open hand.

"Doors are warded when I call it a night. You're in by then or you stay out all night."

"Abe, I really need to find her." She bit her lip and hesitated.

"Don't rightly know if it's right. Don't know after what happened to Ted and all if she would want to see you. Some still think you were in it with that bastard back then."

"I'm not her sister, you know," Angelica hissed. "I left him before he …"

"I know that, girly, but she doesn't. She just knows you're a Wilkes. She lost a lot, you know." He peered at her. "See those three at the table, the one by the door? Ask for Dean, Dean Thomas. He's been there."

"Right," she mused after looking over her shoulder at the table. "Two Aurors and some old guy. Should I just go over and introduce myself?"

"Thomas, over here," Aberforth called across the room, then jerked his head, indicating that the young man should join him at the bar.

"Yeah, Abe?" He frowned as he neared the bar.

"This witch needs to get to Ted Tonks' place. Apparate, she may not be welcomed by Floo."

Dean looked down at the cloaked figure, scowling, then back to Aberforth. "You vouch for her?"

"Good Merlin, boy, she just needs to visit. She is a shirttail Black, wants to see Teddy is all."

"Shirttail or not, being a Black is not a recommendation." Dean shook his head at Aberforth.

"Are you calling me a fool, boy? Now do what you are told." He leaned over the bar and glared at the young wizard.

"Sure, but if Andromeda gets mad it's going to be you that takes the blame for this." Dean stepped away from the bar and started walking to the door with Angelica following closely behind. Once outside, he pulled her into his side and, with a crack of thunder, took her to the bottom of a sloping path that led to the house.

Angelica stood looking up at Andromeda's door. Angelica was unsure as to the reception she would receive. If she were received at all. She stood, biting her lip, and pushed her hood back, turning to thank Dean for his help only to see him disappear without a word.

She turned back to the house and began the short walk to the door. Andromeda knew her, had attended her wedding as had many of the Blacks, and would recognize her at once. Angelica approached a rusty set of gates as she felt the wards drop and allow her to enter. She stopped, turning in a complete circle, scanning the grounds for someone who had seen her, and finding no-one she scowled as she approached the door.

"Angelica?" Andromeda opened the front door before Angelica had climbed the stairs.

"Andromeda, it has been a long time."

"I don't know if I should say too long, or not long enough," she said, frowning. "I guess that's what you are here to tell me."

"Ah," Angelica smiled, "so if the choice be mine, I would say too long."

"I didn't ask," she said coldly. "It is just me and the little one so if it was…"

"No, it is you I want to talk to. I shan't be long."

"I was just making a fresh pot of tea when I heard the wards fall," she said, biting her lip, and then turned around, looking into the house behind her. "You are welcome to a cup, but that is all."

Angelica followed her into the kitchen and slipped off her cloak. She looked around the Muggle-style room and grinned.

"Always a treat to see a Black live like this. I was sorry to hear about Ted and Nymphadora."

"What of you? How have you been living? For that matter, where?" Andromeda put the teapot on the table and grabbed two mugs from the counter, ignoring her comment. "Still take it black?"

"Only you would remember how I take my tea after all these years." Angelica reached for the pot and poured the tea as Andromeda gathered up milk and sugar.

"It was good to hear the wards fall. I hate to admit it, but it was," Andromeda sighed as she sat down. "They still recognise the Black blood, but not many come around anymore."

"Cannot be many left," Angelica said quietly.

"You avoided my question. Where have you been?" Andromeda's voice turned hard. "Last I heard you were still with that Wilkes, still running after Voldemort. Tell me, did you leave him before he died? Or were you still hoping his Dark Lord would spare him?"

"Voldemort did not…"

"Of course he killed him, you fool. He sent his Death Eaters out to die for him. Surely you were not so stupid not to realise that."

"I'll not go into that, not today," she sighed. "Ah, Andromeda, must we start this again? Must we re-fight a war over almost twenty years? A war I was too young to understand or to see for what it was? My gods, Andromeda, I was seventeen and married, what do you want me to say? I made a mistake? I shouldn't have married him?"

"I have my life in the other room, asleep in a cot in the corner of my bedroom. Angelica, I cannot risk losing him. I _will not _risk losing him. Say what you have to say, then leave. I'm sorry for it, but leave."

Angelica reached inside her robes and pulled out a dark red journal. "This was left for his father."

"Left for his father?" Andromeda reached and took the journal she was offered. "Whatever …"

She paused as she opened the cover and saw the inscription to Remus. "A little late, I must say. He could have used this when he was still alive."

She tossed the journal back on the table and rose to begin clearing off the tea service. "I think it is time you left."

"Keep the book, it may have some value. If the baby…"

"He does not need the potion." Andromeda turned angrily. "I am sick of people who don't know what they are talking about acting as if he is dangerous, or that the full moon has any meaning to him. Take it and leave."

"I did not mean that, Meda. I meant it is Professor Snape's own potion, the one Remus took. You could sell it for the boy. It would bring a tidy sum."

"We have no need of it, I tell you," she hissed tearfully. "Remus never had much, but I have enough for the boy. We will be just fine."

"Others do. It would be a waste to throw it out, to not make use of it."

"Then give it to St. Mungo's!"

"Right, good idea Andromeda. I'll just walk in and plunk it down in front of an Auror instead. Since I have no-one left to speak for me it should go smoothly."

Andromeda looked at the journal and then back to Angelica. "What did he mean by the other things? The things about my daughter?"

Angelica picked up the journal and opened the cover, reading the whole inscription for the first time. She looked up at Andromeda and smirked.

"You mean, what did he say about you? I guess that he respected your strength. He didn't play with words, he wrote what he meant."

"Give me that." Andromeda grabbed the book, sat heavily at the table to flip open the cover, and read the inscription again, slower this time, wiping her eyes as she saw her daughter's name.

_Mr R. Lupin _

_I am sending you the directions for the monthly potion, as the one you receive from St. Mungo__'__s is not adequate for your needs. Understand that it is not your safety that I fear is in jeopardy. You do, however have a wife, and from what I heard at the meeting the other night, she carries your spawn. _

_Since she is incapable of walking without doing herself damage I hardly think she is capable of handling your monthly problem. I would also suggest that you do not entrust her to brew the potion, or to prepare the ingredients. _

_Her mother is quite adept at potions and judging by what I see of her offspring must have the patience necessary to complete the brewing. She has always impressed me as a level headed individual capable of this task._

_Professor S. Snape_

"I think it was really for Tonks," Angelica said quietly. "I shouldn't have brought it. I thought … I don't know what I thought… perhaps that …"

"Perhaps that I needed it?" Andromeda wiped her eyes and looked up at her. "That I needed to know that she would have been safe with him, or that someone else worried the same as I did? My Nymphadora always said he was a git, but a good, trustworthy one. She thought highly of him - regardless of what she said, I know she thought well of him."

She licked her finger and began to turn the pages one at a time, glancing at the neatly written lines, in the small, precise script, but lost in a sea of memories. She did not see the potions but the look on her daughter's face when Remus had come home after too long gone. She saw the way he looked at her when he thought no one was watching, and the way he would be sure to hold her elbow when she climbed the stairs to their room. She remembered the way Tonks had hurried to him that last day, anxious to be with him, and afraid to leave her son. Torn between the two, somehow knowing that whereas Teddy was safe and at home, Remus needed her to go with him to whereever the last battle took him.

She swallowed hard as she continued to turn the pages, seeing potion after potion put down on the pages. She paused to read one and recognized a modification to a children's cough syrup, and turned the page to find a potion for teething pains and earache. She gasped as she turned the last page and looked up at Angelica.

"So you loved him? You really did?" Andromeda looked at her, stunned.

Angelica tore the book from Andromeda's hand and stared at the last page, horrified at what it may contain, wishing she had burnt it with the cottage.

_Mr Lupin _

_The bearer of this book I entrust to you. She is of the Black family, albeit distantly. As such, she is a relative of your wife__'__s. Thus, you are now in a position of some responsibility to her. A position you are not able to ignore by Wizarding Law. _

_Angelica Wilkes is my only family and the only thing I have of any value. Since you are incapable of harming even your enemies, I feel she will be safe under your care. I have seen to her financial future to ensure that she is not a burden to you. _

_Severus Snape_

"Damned git!" she fumed, almost seeing him as he would have smirked, writing this last page. Her hands shook as she slipped her cloak over her shoulders and turned to leave, not wanting to break down in front of Andromeda.

She ran down the hall and out of the door, ignoring Andromeda's calls. She needed to leave, to hide, to be rid of the looks and unspoken words. _How could you_ would be the next thing out of Andromeda's mouth. Angelica's question had always been _how could he_?


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

**Reading the Will**

**Chapter 7**

* * *

**London.**

Harry took the train, traveling like a Muggle and taking the time to assimilate back into their culture, which was getting more and more difficult with each year he spent away. He thought of Snape, who would dress with such care, and wondered if he was ever confused between the two worlds. Was that the reason he was never without his robes and buttoned waistcoat? Did the clothes help to ground him and hold his feet to the world that he must stay in even though he must have wanted at times to run away? Did it make it impossible to run away and to leave this all behind?

He watched the land slip away from his window as he approached Little Whinging, and thought of Snape living as a Muggle. He wondered what it would have been like to grow up in the Muggle world, knowing that you held magic in the palm of your hand. Would it eventually leave you feeling better than the rest, or less? Would the power you held in check ground you or give you flight?

No Muggle-born that Harry knew had been aware of their _gift_ until their letter confirmed it. _Gift._ He almost snorted at the thought. Then he wondered what it would feel like to be left behind as Petunia had been.

Harry glanced down at his jumper and pulled it off, quickly shrinking it to fit in his pocket. Mrs Weasley's handiwork was accepted in Hogwarts and at Grimmauld Place but he didn't think it would work too well in Petunia's sitting room. _If _he was even invited into the sitting room.

He looked out of the window again and thought that perhaps he wore the jumper instead of a waistcoat to ground him to the place that he wanted to be, not trusting what he'd held in the palm of his hand to be enough. Putting his hand into his pocket, he felt the rough wool to reassure himself that home was with him.

He had planned what to say, how to greet his cousin, how to smile at his aunt, how to do exactly what they would expect to garner the information he wanted. Now his plans felt foolish and straight out of a late night Muggle movie that he used to listen to through the walls of Number Four.

_She had been left behind._ He frowned as the thought came to him unbidden. She did not have the _gift_. What did she wear to ground her to the house on Privet Drive? Perhaps it was holding her too hard to the ground. Perhaps, Harry thought, she needed to be un-tethered.

He ran his hand through his hair and wished it were Ginny that sat next to him instead of an empty seat. He would ask her how she might feel if one of her brothers was born a Squib and sent away to school. Would she be jealous of the freedom the Muggles offered? Would a wizarding child feel jealous of the movies, shopping and endless streets of nameless people? He thought of Petunia in his world and Ginny in this.

He walked off the platform and down to Privet Drive, wishing again that Ginny were with him. He found he did that more and more. Wish that she were near so that he could look up and see her scowl at him. He didn't need a button-up waistcoat to be grounded or a Weasley jumper. He needed her eyes not to turn away from his.

He looked up from the spot on the pavement that he had been looking at for the past few minutes and saw again the house where he had grown up. The neat lawn and trimmed shrubs belied what lay inside. He remembered sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs, and the bars Vernon had anchored to his window. He shook his head and began to walk up the drive as the memory of Ron's rescue flashed into his mind, and the almost-goodbye from Dudley on that last day.

His knuckles banged on the wooden door three times before he let his hand fall to his side. Then the sound of footfalls hurrying down the short hallway and stopping at the door came from inside. The peephole darkened before whoever it was looking at him stepped away and slowly opened the door, ending any hope of flight.

"Blimey, Harry, I never expected to see you come walking in." Dudley stepped aside to give Harry room to enter.

"Ummm, Dudley?" Harry peeked around the hulk of his cousin to see down the hallway.

"Come on in, Harry, it's ok," Dudley said quietly. "Mum's in the kitchen."

"Where's your Dad?" Harry glanced back up the drive, expecting him to arrive any moment.

"Nah, he's at work. Won't be home for hours."

"Well, if you are sure it's no problem, okay," he squeaked and nodded as if he was twelve years old again. "Thanks, Duds."

"So," Harry licked his lips and shoved his hands in his pockets to grip the woolen jumper. "What have you been up to?"

"More like what have _you _been up to? I heard 'bout it, ya know, we got some of those funny papers, right funny, those." Dudley grinned. "Come on in, Mum has fresh cookies and was just putting on a pot of tea when you knocked."

"What do you mean, you heard about it? Heard about what?" He chased Dudley down the hallway and grabbed his arm, pulling him back.

"Tell me what the fuck you are talking about," he hissed.

"Hey, come on." Dudley pulled his arm away, a confused expression on his face. "What's this? You came here, remember? I didn't go all soft and look _you _up. We just heard about the medal and everything they gave you. Some kinda hero now, or what?"

"Harry?" Petunia stood looking down the short hallway from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "I figured you would come around sooner or later. He said you would."

"Who?" He looked from Dudley to his aunt and back at Dudley.

"Your mother's friend. That one from the old neighbourhood. Snape."

"Yeah right." He licked his lips nervously and looked back at the front door. "He came here?"

"Of course not, he sent me a book," she snipped as she reached around her back and untied her apron. "You can sit on the stool at the counter. I've already set the table for dinner and don't want it messed up."

Harry heard Dudley's sigh and grinned as he walked over to the stool. He took his place, surprised that Dudley took the seat next to him.

"She doesn't really mean to sound so mean, Harry, she just…"

"Don't make excuses for me, young man, and of all people not to him."

"Mum, he hasn't been here for five minutes and already you're…"

"It's fine, Dudley, really, it is." Harry smiled at his cousin and started to chuckle. "Sorry Aunt Petunia, but this is just getting too bloody funny."

"And what, young man, do you find so funny?" Petunia planted her hands on her hips and glared at him.

"That I still feel like a kid here. I rather expected it, but then again I didn't. It's like I grew up but here I am, the same as before." He paused and looked around the small house. "I guess … I don't know… now that I see it again, I don't feel like I ever lived here. Not really. I used to be scared of you, you know, when I was a little kid."

"Me?" She put her hand to her throat and nervously walked back into the kitchen and put her apron back on. "Why would you ever be scared of me?"

"Oh, I don't know, Aunt Petunia." He smirked, watching her hands shaking as she moved the teapot to the counter in front of him. "Maybe when you locked me under the stairs. I guess it started then."

"You were in that cupboard for a reason," she snapped at him. "Not that you ever asked, not that you ever thought about more than yourself, but there was a reason. Then when you went off to that school, you came home worse every summer. What was I to do with you?"

Harry stopped laughing and looked at the floor as he clenched his fists, not wanting to show his anger. "Excuse me, but what possible reason could you have for locking a child under the stairs? What possible reason did you have for treating me like that?"

"When you were two, only two and you could open up every door in the house. Twice I found you outside in the middle of the night. You could have been killed. When Vernon decided to nail the doors shut, you would … well… I don't know what happened but the glass would disappear from your window and out you would go again."

Harry lifted his head and grinned at her, forgetting his anger. "I've heard that can happen sometimes. Kids, you know, kids can't control their magic when they are little."

"Well, we had to find someplace with no windows and the cupboard was as good a place as any."

"But you kept me there."

"Well, yes. Harry, I didn't know how long it would last. I didn't know if you had outgrown it, or if it was safe. Your mother would have episodes from time to time when she was young, episodes she never outgrew."

"What kind of episodes?" His eyes locked on hers. "Please, Aunt Petunia, you never really talk about her. Not really, you only talk about the later part, the part that you didn't like, my Dad and that I…"

"It was never a matter of _like, _boy," she sighed and shook head. "You just never understood. You always acted as if it were my fault. If it wasn't for us you wouldn't have had a place to live, remember that."

"Mum, he was a kid…blimey, I don't even understand why you treated him that way. I mean, he was a prat, always butting in where he wasn't wanted, always better than everyone else, but … well, you were, Harry. Always have been. Sorry 'bout that." He looked at Harry sheepishly.

"It's ok, Duds, I guess I was something of a prat." He grinned. "And you were sort of a bully. Not that it bothers me now, just… well, you know."

"Yeah, when you were real little you used to try and follow me around all the…"

"Dudley, we don't need to go into all this now. Harry, exactly why are you here?"

"I just wanted to…I don't know, see you, I guess. I hoped that we could get past everything that happened. My mother would have wanted me to know you, to sort of keep in touch."

"If she was so worried about that, she should have stayed put instead of going off like she did." Petunia turned back to the sink and started to wipe at the already clean surface.

"You were saying she had episodes."

"Yes, well." She stopped wiping and looked at the wall in front of her. "Mirrors would break, and sometimes the lights would go out when no one touched the switch. Other things, little things."

"Did they, your Mum and Dad, lock her up?"

"Of course not!" She spun around and glared at him. "She wasn't dangerous to herself. She wasn't like that, not like that Potter who took her away from here for good. Not like your father, who didn't care what happened to either one of you."

"He was not dangerous," Harry spat.

"He kept her there. She should have been safe and at home. She would have been if he hadn't married her and kept her where there was a war going on. He should have known better, he should have sent the two of you home."

"She was home, in her home." He raked both hands through his hair. "Listen Aunt Petunia, can we not do this? Can we not argue about him right now? It's something we will never agree on, can we just let it go for now?"

"Good idea Mum. Show him the book." He grinned and nodded at her. "She's been writing in it on and off ever since she got it about a year ago."

"Dudley," she pouted, wrapping her arms around her waist. "This is not the time."

"Sure it is, Mum." He sighed and got up to walk into the sitting room. "You wouldn't be writing in it if you didn't intend to give it to him."

Silence spun between Petunia and Harry as they waited for Dudley to come back from fetching the book. Harry looked at her and smiled, knowing that her apron was her waistcoat and wished he had left his jumper on.

"I will thank you to take this and leave." She took the red journal from Dudley and forced it into Harry's hands. Then she looked at his eyes, surprised to see them higher than her own. Without thinking, she reached up and laid her hand on his cheek.

"You are not as tall as Dudley. Must take after the Evans' side in that," she said softly, then quickly pulled her arm back as if scalded. "I thank you for coming, Harry. Dudley, dear? Will you please see him to the door?"

Harry watched her back as she walked down the hallway, then disappeared up the stairs. He brought his hand up to his cheek and placed his fingers where she had touched, trying to remember if this was the first sign of affection she had ever shown him.

"Harry?" Dudley opened the door and shuffled his feet in embarrassment. "She really did spend a lot of time writing in that. Dad would yell at her and tell her to stop, had terrible rows about it, they did."

"Tell her I appreciate it." Harry walked to the door, stopping at the bottom of the stairs and looking up. "Listen Duds, give me a minute. Okay?"

He stepped onto to the first stair and looked back at Dudley. "I'll be right down."

He climbed the stairs and remembered the last time he had walked down them. He thought of Tonks, and Moody and nighttime rides on racing brooms. How far that all seemed now. How a lifetime away and in the realm of dreams it all seemed now. He turned at the sound of sobbing and saw Aunt Petunia on her knees in front of a cupboard holding a small bundle of letters tied in a blue ribbon.

"Aunt Petunia?" he asked hesitantly. "Is there something I can do?"

"No." She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. "It's time to get rid of these, I guess. I told Vernon I had burnt them."

"Are they from my Mum?"

"No, they are from him. He is the only one that told me about her, you know," she mused as she wiped her nose on her apron. "Oh, she would write about how wonderful everything was, and how much she loved it and how much she would show me. But he wrote about her. He told me… well, things."

She pulled a letter at random and held it up to him. "See? Go ahead, it won't bite."

Harry slid his back down the wall until he was sitting with her. Taking the letter, he unfolded it and looked at her in surprise when he recognized the tight handwriting.

_Petunia, _

_Thank you for the birthday card and your kind wishes. I was surprised to get it. Lily gave me some sweets from the shop in Hogsmeade. She said she would bring some to you when term ends because the ones with raspberries are your favourites. _

_She is sad that you do not write to her. If you want me to, I can send an owl to you. All you have to do is tie the letter to his leg and then shoo it off. It is easier than mailing these letters. I have to wait until I get home or someone is going to London._

_Severus_

Harry grinned and looked up at Petunia, who was leaning forward to see which letter he held.

"That must have been from her second year." She looked up at him, chewing her lip. "They are all like that. Nothing really, just little… I don't know, little things kids write."

He took another and opened it.

_Petunia,_

_I have sent the quill you wanted. It should be there in time for the holidays. I am sure she will like it. She always admires it in the window. _

_I will be staying here. As much as I appreciate your kind offer for coffee, I must decline. _

_Severus._

"Fifth year, I think, or maybe fourth," she sighed, leaning back. "By fifth year he was already rather more formal."

"Why did you keep them?"

"It's all I had," she sighed. "Foolishness and child's play. If you want them, they are yours."

She stood up and waited for him to join her. "I have something else you may as well have. That and the journal is all I really have of hers."

She walked into her bedroom and opened the closet, lifting down a small box from the shelf. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she pulled out a silver chain with a heart-shaped locket. Sighing deeply, she snapped it open and smiled up at him, patting the bed next to her.

"This was the last thing he sent. It was hers, your mum's."

Harry held out his hand as the small, cold piece of silver fell into his palm. Looking down at the picture, he saw his father smile back at him on one side, and a young girl with dirty blond hair smirk from the other.

"You?" he asked looking up in surprise.

"Graduation," she nodded. "The locket was my mum's. I have one just like it. Mum had it made especially for me so we would each have one."

Petunia reached under her collar and pulled out a matching locket, slipping it over her head and opening it to show Harry. Hers held a picture of Dudley on one side and a green-eyed witch on the other.

"Mum?" he breathed as he sat beside her on the bed.

"Her confirmation." Petunia nodded, taking the locket back, snapping it shut and putting it back over her head.

He stood and walked slowly to the door before turning back to her.

"Aunt Petunia." He pulled his brow together in concentration. "When did he send this?"

"It came with the journal." She shook her head then stood and smoothed her apron. "I have often wondered why he kept it all this time only to send it like he did. I think he was saying goodbye."

"Did you write back?" He suddenly needed to know that Snape had at least one person outside of Hogwarts and the Order. Someone who may have at least pretended to care.

"Oh heavens no, why would I do that?" she snorted in nervous laughter. "I hadn't heard from him since before she was married, then out of the blue he sends that empty book and her locket."

He turned and started down the stairs with the letters and locket clutched tightly in his hands. He pulled out the journal and tucked the letters inside the cover, dropping the locket into his pocket.

"You coming back?" Dudley waited at the bottom of the stairs.

"I don't know, Duds." Harry looked at his cousin and grinned. "I would like to keep in touch. You know, sort of … umm..."

"Yeah, me too," Dudley grinned. "Maybe we could catch a soccer game or… or that thing you used to play."

"I'll send an owl," Harry laughed as he stepped out the door. "Make sure Uncle Vernon doesn't shoot it."

Turning back as he reached the curb, he wondered why it had been so hard to come here and whether what he felt now was closure or a sort of beginning. Then, looking down at the red journal, he realized that perhaps he had come full circle. He smiled, knowing that it held stories of his mother that he no longer needed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Not Mine.**

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**Reading the Will**

**Chapter 8**

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She sighed and lowered her hood, knowing that the darkness would hide her face as she started down the pavement, pausing to glance in the windows of the now closed shops. She stood in front of the apothecary for several minutes without realizing the footfalls she had heard on the pavement had stopped at the same time as her own. Cursing herself for letting her defences down she waited for the stranger to make himself known.

"Mrs Wilkes, may I have a moment?" Kingsley's low voice spoke behind her.

She raised her eyes to his in the window's reflection and smirked. "It's been a long time Shacks, a long, long time."

"You need to push up your sleeves Mrs Wilkes. It wouldn't do if I said that you not only got away, but also hexed me in the process," his chuckle sounded warm and genuine to her ears.

"Ah, don't you trust me Shacks?" She lifted her arms and held her hands palms up to him, allowing him to push up her sleeves and remove her wand.

"Only one?"

"Yes," she said flatly. "If I had two do you think I would tell you? Tell me Shacks, what else did you expect to find? A tattoo perhaps? Some sort of mark?"

"No," he said seriously, "I think you would not only tell me about a second wand but give it to me if I asked."

"And the tattoo?"

"Mrs… Angelica, I was not looking for that. I am sorry if you thought it."

"My, a Ministry lackey with a heart. Tell me Shacks, how did you know I was here?"

"You know I won't tell you that, yet. Enough to say that whoever it was chose to tell me personally, in his own way. A friend perhaps, or an old Order member. It should be enough for you to know you are watched."

"Only two knows I am in town, and I don't think either one would have floo-ed you, so let's cut the shite and tell me what you really want."

"I need to know what you want here."

"Oh, I thought I would stop by and toss out a few curses. You know a few unforgivables for old time's sake, to bring some excitement to the town."

He crossed his arms high on his chest and brought down his chin to lie on his chest, looking at her from under his brows.

"Good Merlin Shacks, can't a witch do a little window shopping?"

"If that is all you are doing."

"Yeah, right," she muttered and began to walk away from him.

"Mrs Wilkes," Kingsley called to her back. "You need to talk to me."

"No, don't think I do Shacks," she called over her shoulder. "Keep the wand, I have another."

His long strides brought him up alongside her quickly. He grabbed her arm and yanked her back, spinning her around and then pushed her back against the building.

"You didn't hear me. I said, you need to talk to me." His grin had disappeared as he glowered down at her.

"Should we start with old times? Remember the time we …"

"Do not make the mistake to think I still consider you a friend."

"That hurt Shacks. Why I would think you…"

"Shacklebolt, or Kingsley."

She tried to look away from him before he could see her tears that she felt sting her eyes. Unable to breathe evenly, she shrugged as she felt her chin start to shake.

"Let me go," she whispered, finally able to turn her head away from his gaze.

"I can't do that."

"Why? What do you think I have done? You killed my husband, isn't that enough?"

"There are still those that think you were with them."

"And you Shacks? What do you believe?" she turned back to lock her eyes on his.

"That you had already left him. That it was you that gave up his location. If I am right then I can help you."

"Then let me go," she admitted the truth. "You know if they find out I am dead."

"How do I know you tell the truth?"

"It was a barn owl that brought the message. I wrote on the back of a Flourish and Blotts receipt. Good enough?"

"Sounds right. Why did you never come forward?"

"Sure, you'd all just trip over yourselves to believe me. No Shacks, it was better the way it was. Now just go get yourself a pint and let me walk away."

"I can't do that. I made a promise." He reached into his robes and pulled out a red journal. "I made a promise to him that you would be safe. It was the only thing that seemed to worry him at the end."

She swallowed hard and shook her head as her eyes became riveted to the book he held in his hands.

"I don't think even he thought you would burn down your home."

She jerked her head up and saw him smile at her. "He wanted me to reset the wards. Imagine my surprise when I found nothing left to ward."

"That bastard!" she hissed. "He left me, he knew he wouldn't make it, but he went anyway. He just went anyway. I didn't even get to say goodbye."

She felt hot tears slide down her face and a hand squeeze her chest so hard that she hurt. She put the heels of her hands to her eyes and swore.

"How did you find me? Really."

"The book. He charmed it to change colour when you were near. It was blue until about an hour ago. So, when I told you someone told me you were here, it was him."

"You knew? That I was… that …"

"He gave me the journal and asked me to give it to you and to reset the wards. Until that time, you were a complete secret. One I am at a loss of what to do with now."

"Just leave me," she wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

He reached for her right hand with his left and pressed the journal into it. "I will be honest. I tried to read what he has written, but he must have put a spell on it, for your eyes only."

She pulled the journal away from him and clasped it to her chest. Lowering her head, she rested her chin on the sharp edge of the binding and smelled the scent of leather. Her breath hitched as she began to sob and turned her back on Kingsley, resting her forehead against the brick building.

"I will not leave you like this," he said kindly. "We owe him at least this."

"No," she spoke softly into the wall. "You owe him nothing. Nothing do you hear me? He wanted nothing and that's what he got. Nothing. No-one ever asked him what he wanted, so he wanted only what he had. He never dreamed he could have more."

"Ah, Angelica…"

"NO!" She spun back to him enraged. "He died for those arseholes. He died and they still laugh at him. Only now, they all want to pretend that they knew him. That damnable paper runs stories about him, making things up and poking around. They even buried him at that school that they had forced on him. That old man that made him oath his life away, that's the only reason he stayed there. He hated it. He hated it I tell you. Now he lays there in the ground, alone, and he hates it."

"Angelica, he is not there, only the shell…"

"Oh my gods, don't do that. Don't talk in platitudes. Don't belittle him."

"Angelica,"

"No," she raised her chin and tried to smile. "It's over. He left me everything I need. Enough money to start over. He had it put in my vault. That's all I want, all I need."

"Your business here is done?"

"Yes, you can ask an Arthur Weasley for some journals that he wanted sent to the Ministry. He should have got them by now, even with a slow owl. I just need one more night here, then I am leaving."

"May I ask where?"

"You can ask anything you want. I stopped giving people what they want a long time ago, so don't expect an answer."

"Then have your night. If you change your mind send me a message, I still owe him that."

"Sure Shacks," her voice trembled. "I'll send you a journal. One that everyone can write in about what they should have done, what they almost did. Then we can dig a hole and throw it in. We can bury it like they buried him and forget everything that really happened and make up fairy tales about him."

She apparated to the grounds near his grave and for the last time walked slowly to sit near him and talk into the morning. She told him that the last of his journals had been delivered. She told him of Neville and of Andromeda, and about how grown up Draco looked. She said goodbye and knew she would never come here again. Then she remembered the journal Kingsley had given her.

She pulled her wand and cast a soft Lumos to light its tip to be able to read. She rifled through the pages and frowned at seeing nothing written, but then found a short message on the last page.

_Angelica _

_You have asked only one thing from me that I have until now been unable to give you. I give it to you now freely, and without reservation. I give you my promise that I love you, now and for always. _

_Severus_

Angelica laid her hand on the cold ground, closed her eyes and smiled through her tears.

"Arse," she said aloud. "Always getting the last word."

**End**

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Thanks for all the kind reviews and interest expressed in this once short piece. I just wanted to make a couple of comments.

Since Snape did not live to see the end of the battle his perspective of things would be a lot different from what we know of cannon. He did not see Draco's parents and their resolve to save their son. Nor was he privy to all the information of Remus' and Tonks' life.

It may seem a little out of character for him to write to Petunia, but he was eleven or twelve years old at the time and as such had not reached his adult persona. I do not find it strange at all that a child that age would want to stay connected to the only life he had known and he may have felt Petunia would write to him because of their shared bond with Lily. When the other students received mail by owl he, an eleven year old boy, away from home for the first time, would have wanted something to be sent to him.

Petunia would not have seen the cruelty in what she was doing. Many people abuse children thinking it for their own good and she thought Harry, unlike her sister, would harm himself if left alone.

Also even abused children love their parents. They may be angry, they may not 'like' them, but they do love them, and Petunia was his mother in all ways expect biological.


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